Phoenix : The New Hunger Games
by Silver Medals
Summary: When the one hundred twenty-fifth Hunger Games come upon, the Quarter Quell reading goes as always; this time with a permanent twist. SYOT Open.
1. Phoenix Part One

President Argent was never one to outspeak; a woman who kept quiet unless addressing the newest Capitol news or announcing a new law. But not today. Today was the announcement of the Quarter Quell.

Her nails were a brilliant purple, freshly painted. She blew on them furiously as to dry them before the announcement. She was only eleven when the Quarter Quell announcement; a little girl. But this year, she will be the President, the announcer herself. Her nephew would carry the box with the card, she would take _125 _in her long purple nails. She'd read it, the Capitolites would clap and cheer uproariously, and she'd saunter off of the long white stage, her heels clicking along. That's exactly how it would go; it'd be perfect.

When the moment came, her nails had finally dried and she'd just received her caffeinated drink, without enough time to drink it. She stood up, smoothing her skirt (which matched her nails). "President Eleven Argent- you're on in fifteen," the crew came over the radio in a monotonous voice. Her heels clicked along- just as she'd planned -as she took her time towards the crisp white stage.

"Presenting the lovely president of Panem, ladies and gentlemen, it is the beautiful Eleven Argent!" President Argent ran down the stage, her purple dress flowing around her knees. Her white high heels were indistinguishable against the stage. Cheers came from all around- hands reaching for her. She held her head high as she took quick steps towards the end of the stage, where her nephew, Quintus, stood with a little black box containing cards for a thousand years. He was dressed in all black; virtually unnoticeable next to President Argent.

The president drew her hand sharply through the air. The silence was instant. She drew in a long breath as she opened the small black box. She drew out the _125 _card with great care. She clutched it between long fingernails, read it over, and held it to her side.

This was going to be exciting. "To represent that this is the one hundred twenty-fifth year of our annual pageant, the Hunger Games, and the fifth Quarter Quell, there will not be a change because of the Quell, there will instead be a permanent change. In this year, and every year forward, we will include two tributes from the Capitol to signify that absolutely no one is safe. After the recent discovery of an active District Thirteen, two tributes will be included from District Thirteen when possible. These tributes will be chosen in the reaping, as normal," President Argent said in a loud clear voice, trying to make her (admittedly quite boring) speech as interesting as possible. The end part had been scrawled across the card in pencil instead of the neat print as the other cards had been.

Either the crowd had had their breath taken away or they were bored because they were silent. No one spoke, no clapping, no cheering, just an eerie silence that jarred the president. She wanted a reaction, she wanted gasps and horrified screams. Instead there was silence. No one even sighed.

And then it went as planned, despite the uncalled-for silence. She sauntered off the long white stage, her almost-radiant white high heels clicking along. Everything was perfect, but why hadn't there been cheering? Clapping? Why hadn't there been even a single breath? Why had the entire crowd stayed silent? They were supposed to cheer, clap, scream. Anything but _silence. _Silence was horrible. At least there hadn't been chatter and laughing, as the President recalled from the last Quell reading.

One thing was certain- this wasn't the end. There must be something more. Somehow the President would persuade the Gamemakers to haunt the year's arena with terrifying phoenixes or train a certain part of the arena to each specific tribute's fears. This surely couldn't be _it__, _this was not special enough to be a Quarter Quell, even one that was to be permanent. These Games had to be more special than a simple twist. Of course, it wasn't easy to sacrifice Capitol children, even the President knew that, but it was just so _boring. _The Capitol almost deserved it to make up for the simplicity of the twist.

Eleven Argent was going to make something happen.

* * *

By the time the President finished her walk off the stage, twisted through the hallways, and kicked off her high heels, her drink was cold. She didn't send it back, just drank it. It was sweeter this way. Perhaps she'd order all of them cold. It made it better somehow.

Fire-breathing phoenixes would make these Games better too.


	2. Phoenix Part Two

I didn't write the card. The pen scrawling about District Thirteen was years old, I'm sure. The silence, oh, the _silence. _I wasn't looking for cheering and clapping, wasn't even looking for amazed glances. There had been no reaction; that's what really jarred me. It wasn't the nature of them, no. I could see each and every face in the crowd from my position on the stage, each of them marked with horror on the inside. But outside? They said _nothing._

Maybe it was the way I'd said it, the way I enunciated "Capitol" and "Thirteen", but it doesn't seem so. It wasn't me. They were appalled by the nature of the card, the idea that their children were the ones sacrificed, not just the lowly districts. Either way, I can tell that this year will be exciting. Perhaps eyes will not be glued to the screen in anticipation of the next move, but this time torn away in fear of what will happen to their daughter's best friend. That's just as good, is it not? Hope is the only thing stronger than fear. They must have fear lingering over them, but at the same time, they must have something to wish for. In this case, the hope that their child will make it out alive.

That's good enough, right? And maybe the fear doesn't need to be the giant fire-breathing phoenixes, maybe the fear doesn't even have to be the grotesque nature of anything. Maybe the fear just has to be the notion that we are in control.

Yes, that's exactly it. The Capitol is not in control. _I _am in control.

I stop pacing around the room after a moment. I am in control. The Districts need to know that, and when they know that, the fear will take over the hope; the hope that after a failed rebellion, they could rebel again and somehow overtake the ever-more-powerful Capitol. That's simple.

A champagne bottle rests on a silver tray, surrounded by several delicate glasses. I grasp the bottle in one hand and pour it gently into a glass. It comes out the clear, yellow-tinged color of champagne. A few bubbles drift to the top, resting there. It looks like simple champagne in an extravagant bottle. That's what it is; something plain wearing something fancy. Some people would call me that, just an airhead wearing an elaborate dress, but I'll tell you right now that I'm not, that I do, as a matter of fact, form thoughts.

For once, there are no Capitolites running to me, no young children running up to me and screaming my name. What an honor it is to meet your president. They aren't doing that, and I know why. I read the card that's going to get their children slaughtered. It's not my fault but still they blame me. I get that. If someone read a card that could kill my younger sister, I'd run right up to the person that read that card and I would- I- I don't know. I'm not a fighter, I'm a pretty face with a brain and a numerical name.

I'm still sipping my champagne when a little girl runs in. "Argent, Argent! It's you, it's really you!" she yells with a sharp Capitol accent. My accent isn't Capitolite; they call it "generic". "Is this really forever! I can't wait to volunteer next year and finally see the Hunger Games, the Hunger Games! And in real, first person too!"

She's much too excited. Any fool could see that this girl isn't right in the head somehow. "How old are you, darling?" I ask kindly. She looks at me in awe, as if she can't believe someone's speaking to her.

"Eleven. Just like your name!"

"Just like...exactly like my name, sweetie, that's right." I pat her on the head and she runs out of the room, a jaunty skip in her step. Her pink braids fly out behind her as she twirls away.


End file.
